‘Gone, honey. Passed. The paramedics confirmed it a few minutes ago. She had a stroke.’
I staggered. A boy in the line wolf whistled at me as his friends guffawed and pushed each other.
‘Anna?’
I made it past the end of the line and leaned on a shopfront wall. ‘Gone?’ I managed.
‘Gone, Anna,’ Vivian said gently. ‘Can you come home?’
‘I …’ I swallowed, pulling on the end of my braid, realising I was still wearing my beanie. I pulled it off and let it fall to the ground. ‘Yep. Yes, I can come home.’
There was a short silence. ‘Honey, my babysitter –’
I checked the time on my phone; Vivian had stayed far past the end of her shift. ‘Go home, Viv. Of course, go home.’
‘I’ll email you some resources, okay? And a doctor will be around in the morning to sign the death certificate.’ There was another short silence. ‘Anna, is there someone who could come with you? Will you be okay?’
Would I be okay?
My grandmother was my single remaining relative. She’d been a constant in my life for the last five years, and my housemate for four. I’d looked after her myself until I realised we needed extra help, then I’d hired Vivian. I’d started researching care homes in the last few months, because I wanted to be prepared for when it got too much for us to handle.
My grandmother had been a geologist and had worked all over the world. It was one of the things she still remembered. She couldn’t work the microwave, got confused about money, and she sometimes needed help getting dressed in the mornings, but she could talk about different types of soil for hours on end.
She’d saidgoodbyeto me that afternoon. She’d called me Arabella – my mother’s name – but she’d looked happy, sitting on our tiny balcony with a cup of tea. I’d put some of hercollection of ammonites on the table, along with a couple of reference books, and she’d been looking through them, a blanket around her shoulders, the sun on her silver hair.
Would I be okay?
Her life had ceased to be in her full control; she’d forgotten some of her family members and friends. My past grandmother – the one before dementia – would have hated it, hated the lack of control over her mind and emotions. Death meant that she was past the frustration and confusion, past the continual loss, past the agitation at her own helplessness and the anger at the increasing unreliability of her body.
But for five years, she’d been my universe, and now she wasgone.
I had absolutely no idea what to feel.
‘I, ah. Yes, I’ll be okay, Viv.’
‘I know this is a shock, honey. There are some community grief counsellors we recommend – I’ll send you their numbers. And I’ll call you tomorrow, yeah? I can help with the funeral director.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Viv.’ I hung up the phone.
I stared at the wall, my eyes following the path of the shadowed mortar. I felt sick, though I wasn’t sure why – was it grief? Shock? My body reminding me that I’d skipped my break and hadn’t eaten for six hours?
I opened my phone and pulled up a browser tab. I typed in:What do you do when someone dies, then closed the window before I could read the answers.
I need to talk to someone.
Claire. I need to talk to Claire.
I turned around and took two steps back towards Claire before I remembered why I was out here in the first place.
Maeve.
I peered down the street. It was empty of people and full of shadows, unnervingly quiet given the noise of the line and Advena behind me.
It’s just a street, I told myself. My hands were trembling.You’re allowed to be here. You’re safe.
I walked further away from Advena, crossing my arms over my chest. A movement across the road caught my eye; I jumped before I realised what it was.
‘Cat,’ I muttered. I ventured further. ‘Maeve?’ I called.
